Snapchat
by absolutelycancerous
Summary: In which Snapchat is used for it's actual purpose, and Soul leaves his dignity behind in a bathroom stall.


Soul doesn't even know what a "Snap chat" is, aside from it being an annoying little shit of an application that demands his attention with lots of little reminders that flare up any time he so happens to brush his finger against the obnoxious icon. Also, due to the obnoxious pleas of "set up your account!" said app gave him, he stuffed the phone into Maka's hands, telling her to handle it for him; technology was never _really_ his thing, he can barely deal with Facebook.

So when he's alerted of a message, he pulls his phone out (keeping it against his leg—he's in a meeting right now!) to take a peek.

And there is a picture of his meister peeling off her goddamn gloves with her teeth, snarky grin and seductive bedroom eyes included in-shot.

He _almost_ moans out loud.

Instead, he catches himself in the act of opening his mouth, promptly shuts it, clicking the screen of his phone off and quickly attempting to fall back into the matter at hand. A matter of which he hadn't _really_ been paying attention to in the first place, thank god, because he seems to be left out of the loop for the time being, and that's certainly alright with him.

So, what else to do but take a better look at that picture?

He moves to unlock his phone, and nearly whines in defeat when the picture is no longer there; how could he possibly delete something like that without noticing? Bringing up his girlfriend's number (since Soul's never been able to remember Maka's number, ever, in his entire life) with quick hands, he pounds out a message.

Only to be interrupted by one from the very same number.

Instead of gloves, she's got one bare little hand grabbing a bra-covered tit enthusiastically; only the bottom of her mouth visible of her face, lips parted in a moan Soul _swears_ he can hear the longer he stares. His tie feels too tight, and he's hyperaware of the fact he's wearing pants.

The picture, however, fucking _**disappears**_, and Soul dumbly stares at his phone like there's nothing else his poor, lust-driven heart is able to do.

"Eater! Get lost."

One Spirit Albarn is throwing a thumb over his shoulder with a casual flick of the wrist, a look of bemusement on his features. He doesn't elaborate on why—or at least, Soul is already out of _earshot_ when he does, so Soul therefore doesn't care if Spirit was only telling him to take a break, because he's got more… pressing matters to address.

Matters which, as he trotting out into one of the more-busy hallways of the academy, make his phone chime to alert him of a new message from, oh, sweet _jesus_, his meister again.

It's a shot that's aimed down the entirety of her torso, a peek at his favorite, inviting hipbones, her light pink panties and the tops of her toned, creamy thighs.

He's drooling. He's drooling and staring and he needs to find the nearest bathroom, A.S.A.P.

With very little brainpower (due to a severe lack of blood to his brain) and an impressive knowledge of restrooms to ditch class for few blissful moments in, Soul slips inside the nearest one; he grins greedily when he notices that, _score_, he's picked one of the few with a master lock on the main entry door. Cool. _Perfect_. He can walk out of here with his dignity still in-tact.

Soul's phone buzzes again, and this time, he does suck in a little gasp at the newest photo he's been sent.

She's apparently gone back to teasing him with tits, because the next photo involves her fingers plucking one totally, completely, so unbelievably bare nipple that he might actually choke on his own spit and die—

Another one. It takes him a second to see what exactly it is, since it looks like a whole lot of skin, but he catches the position of her fingers, knows her so well to figure out, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, _this is __**definitely**__ a picture of her pressing her fingers up into her pussy._

Soul isn't particularly sure how his slacks ended up tight around his thighs, or when he got his hand around his dong, _or_ when he managed to sit himself the fuck down on one of the toilet seat lids, but somehow he did, and he doesn't even _need_ any more pictures; he isn't too upset when the picture disappears, because he's already hard enough to **scream**, and when he starts stroking himself, he nearly does such.

There's a few minutes where it's just the sound of his activities bouncing off the white-black tile of the lavatory, the sound of skin-on-skin and his puffs of moans that he struggles very hard not to let out; he'd rather this stay a secret. When his phone rings, he jumps, lets go of his dick for only a moment (in order to unlock his phone) before stroking himself faster than before, because she's just sent a picture of her perfect little o-face, where her mouth drops open and her eyebrows get all knitted together—he can almost taste her moaning fit he suspects she was just in the middle of, and that makes him tuck his head down and work himself harder, faster. He nearly falls off the goddamn seat, his hips are so eager.

Again, a slight lag in messages, and Soul slows down for a moment when he realizes he hasn't gotten an immediate follow-up of her current state. However, when his phone chimes at notification at him, the next photo is a picture of her from the ribcage up; her nipples hard, pink buds and her mouth open wide, tongue lapping against her shiny-slick fingers.

He's going to die. There's absolutely zero remorse when he stuffs his wrist into his mouth and moans into his skin, squeezes his dick that little bit as he works himself, and shudders from the impact of his orgasm ripping through him, through his dick. He's trembling from trying to stay so quiet, he remembers the feeling from when he first realized the joys his hand could provide him and how silent he had to be to keep Maka from noticing, and it makes him feel like an awkward little teenage boy all over again as he wipes his hands clean of spunk with toilet paper, then thinks better of it and goes to wash his hands at the skin. He splashes his face a bit while he's at it—he can't go anywhere with his face that embarrassingly red. His phone rings once more, an actual text message this time, not a Snap chat… thing. It's a picture, nonetheless, but not like the ones before (he hopes those really did get deleted, he doesn't want to look like a creep!). It's just a picture of Maka on his bed, bra straps disheveled on her thin, darling little shoulders and hair a limp, after-sex-looking mess, as she blows him a kiss, looks so impossibly cute he think he could _vomit_; it's amazing how she can go from sadistic, sexual siren to cavorting cutie in a matter of seconds.

Soul fires back a text, telling her that he's been excused for the day, and he'll pick up lunch of she wants something in particular. Maka replies:

"no, no. just come home. ;)"

He struggles between heading back in the stall for another jerk, or high-tailing it home with a tent already being hitched in his pants.


End file.
